"A common room, the offices of the City Guard, and the official residence of the Lord Seneschal," replies the mechanical man promptly. He, it should be noted, definitely does not move, though his attention narrows onto Burhul at the orc's slight shift.

"The man who did the deed is the one responsible," says Zoosken, "but this isn't the time for a philosophical argument. It seeks out the one who actually did the deed." Zoosken glances towards the wrapped-up dagger, frowning. "Milo, you'd better make sure you have the fellow next time you want me to use that spell; I don't think there's enough there for more than one more casting."

The Lord Reeve nods, lips pressed thin.

"Mmmm. No doubt," says the old man drily. Burhul, given the chance to get a long, clear-headed look at the man, can tell (because, you know, Burhul's one of those people who cares about fashion and that sort of thing) that while his clothing is (obviously) of simple design, without all the frou-frou and lace and weird crap, it is elegant, clean, exceedingly well-made, and of quality material. This is someone who would be the single glossy-feathered raven in a colorful rainbow of kingfishers, ruby-throated hummingbirds, blue jays, phoenix ducks, scarlet cardinals, and faerie wrens - and by being the only one there not trying to outdo the others in flamboyancy, becomes the one to catch every eye. Burhul can easily guess that the man knows, or someone he trusts knows, how to use every weapon at hand, social as well as otherwise.

Fortunately, there is not much more time between the orc's stout statement of assurance of innocence and the arrival of the two mages, human male and gnome female, carrying a moderately-sized book; the two of them open it on one of the desks, consulting its arcane directions, then spend a few moments trailing powders and oils onto the floor. Afterwards, they direct the placement of 'the subjects' - aka the prisoners, in order the half-elf female, Arthur, David the busboy, and finally Burhul - in an arc along a portion of the circle.

"Are the chains really required?" Zooskin asks of the Lord Reeve.

The old man replies, "Do you truly trust how fast you can cast a spell in case one of them is the guilty party?"

"Hmmm." Zooskin consults the book's diagrams again, and goes to each of the three places that the wakeful but chained prisoners are at, revising the sigils there. "All right, that should do it."

"Will the spell's reach be limited to the room?" asks the Lord Reeve.

"Probably," replies Larissa Farview, the female gnome. "The walls here are ... what, a foot or so worth of stone?"

Carolus is the one who responds. "Ten inches internal. The floors are, variously, nine inches of stone, or four-inch thickness planks on roughly sixteen-inch joists."

"So probably," says Zooskin, "but not absolutely. The spell works if the guilty party is within thirty feet or so under open-field conditions, but internal walls like this can muck it up. It's definitely reliable within the room."

The Lord Reeve grunts, then gestures permission to get on with it.

The spell doesn't take all that long to perform, once the setup is done; after a moment of thought, Horst is sure that the spell is a blessing that the Father would grant a righteous Justicar, and possibly a saint of His who was in true need of it - though perhaps it's a matter of whether or not you feel comfortable asking for it as well. Nissa, for her part, can't quite see how it'd work with her abilities; the Professor, however, thinks that maybe he could achieve the same effect via an alchemical, maybe a charged alchemical, solution - maybe. It'd take some experimentation.

The blood sample, drawn from the blade itself scant moments before the spell's casting, slowly and deliberately extracts itself from the linen used, to hang suspended in the air. The globule ripples and quivers under the mage's chant, almost seeming to test directions to send itself, little bulges pushing this way and that. The three of you, all being mystics of one sort or another, can feel your skin prickle slightly with the tell-tale vibrancy of real magic at work. Zooskin's chant comes to a climax, but the blood slowly quiets into a sphere, barely more than the size of a thin penny. And then it distorts, and streaks straight towards Burhul.

At the very last second, it dodges around him, close enough to flick his cheek and ear with minute trailing droplets, before diving over his shoulder and splattering across the stone of the floor, a streak of crimson betraying the presence of the girl's murderer in the room - or the rooms - below, with a slight curve to its smear suggests that the person might be moving!!

"Hmph," opinions Ham from behind the Professor's eyes, watching the mechanical man move. "It isn't murder if it doesn't die. We'd just be ... examining it by taking it apart. Like you take apart a clockwork. Possibly with a very high level of rapidity. And you could see if you could put it back together again, unlike your other vivisections, Teddy." Ham isn't a nice person - not necessarily evil, but he does have those tendencies - and while resting inside Brooks' head all he can do is watch, he can also comment - and his nasty streak gets taken out on his alter-ego. "I imagine there'd be a lot less blood than with those others. And a lot less squealing, wouldn't there??"

Several sets of footsteps clump down the hallway, chains clunking along, followed by the unpleasant feeling of manacles getting locked around your wrists. Not long after that, the door itself is opened. "You can stand," comes the statement of your primary gaoler, and as you do you finally get a good look at him.

Though he is dressed in a uniform unfamiliar to you, it's clearly a uniform; the other two down here are similarly dressed. The difference is that his outfit is all of a far looser cut, or even simply a pull-on sort of thing - tabard-like - without other clothing underneath. The reason for this is, well, obvious now that you've seen him, for he is not skin and muscle and bone like the rest of those you've known, but steel and wood, shifting subtlely and nigh silently in what might be considered either a foul parody or an admirable imitation of life of the flesh. Within the hood of the cowl he wears glow two small circles, their mild inner light glinting slightly off the steel closest to them; you can see the metal orbs shifting as he turns his attention to one of his two assistants, now shortening the links between you and David. Arthur is ahead of the busboy, and is looking mildly disquieted (AKA about as irritated as you've ever seen him) at the sight of the interrogator.

Two things do ruin the apparent humanity of the creature; its - his? let us continue to use 'his', if only for the timbre of its voice - his left forearm and right lower leg are swollen, massive, two or three times the size of an ordinary person's. The foot has only two large toes; the hand, three fingers and a thumb. Despite the distortion, he moves as though their swollen size is a minor inconvenience, but it does explain the uneven sound when he walks. And so he does, coming down the line to double-check the manacles' closure with his normal-sized (and -shaped) hand before settling in behind you. "Bassard, lead them up."

"Yessir." One of the humans steps to the front and says, "All right, gentlemen, let's head upstairs."

And within Horst, there is a sudden fiercely cold certainty that this is true. Justice must be done.

A tap on the door follows relatively swiftly on the heels of Milo Hostler's suggestion. "Come!"

"Sir," says Beatrice once she's opened the door and stuck her head in, "the prisoners are on their way."

"Good. See to the security of the outer door. Once they're here, nobody but Master Zooskin, Mistress Farview, and the First are to be allowed in."

"Yessir." She heads back out, leaving the door open behind her; the three of you can see her trotting back down the room, empty save for the scribe Nelson.

"Well. Shall we adjourn to see if we already have the murderer in custody?" The old man climbs to his feet, and heads out into the work chamber.

I'm going to skip the primary room description this time. ;)

One prisoner is carried in on a stretcher; the attractive but unconscious half-elven woman is settled down along the side wall nearest the blunt practice weapons, her porters being escorted back out by the attending provost. The other three are led in by two provosts and trailed by a third; their approach is announced by the rattle of chains and a rhythmically-punctuating thump. The reason for that last is revealed to be the third provost, who stays even as the other two depart; he is ... mechanical.

All of you have heard of the Priest-Dukes of Gondahar; they've been in power, and have held together their Duchy as a full-on political power in and out of the Second Ravennan Empire for four thousand years. While for some reason they have never expanded their borders beyond their Imperial location, they are adamant and vigilant about preserving those borders, and lending their allies aid, even though they may have recently suffered from famine, plague, or other problems.

It is said that several thousand years ago, during the time of the Second Ravennan Empire, a plague swept through Gondahar and the eastern coast of the continent, decimating the former and practically obliterating the settlements of the latter. (This is one reason why the eastern coast was so sparsely settled, and why the colonies could be founded - there wasn't much there to stop them, as people thought of the territory as being cursed, haunted, or both.) According to tales (because the Second Conflagration of Dragons did a number on libraries, Let Me Tell You), the plague was especially fierce among close-knit groups of individuals - or, translated, armed forces. It is said - even history books address this as being questionable, unlikely, fantastical, and probably untrue - that in order to protect itself, the Priest-Dukes of Gondahar studied and prayed and were shown the techniques to actually infuse a construct with more than just the semblance of life a 'standard' golem displays; they were given the ability to give them souls.

Give them souls, new souls the way infants possess souls, unblemished and not taken from the living and shoved into the construct the way spooky stories have it being done by the kolschi'ichanth to power malevolent houses and engines of war.

In any case, the tales say that the Priest-Dukes assembled/gave birth to several thousand of these beings, built to reinforce the soldiers manning the strongpoints of the Duchy, so that they could protect themselves properly and yet still lend aid (using brigades of normal people) as needed to their allies. How true the tales of the birth of these 'warforged' are, amongst the four of you you must concede that at least one element is true: they exist.

Two things do ruin the apparent humanity of the creature; its - his? let us continue to use 'his', if only for the timbre of its voice - his left forearm and right lower leg are swollen, massive, two or three times the size of an ordinary person's. The foot has only two large toes; the hand, three fingers and a thumb. Despite the distortion, he moves as though their swollen size is a minor inconvenience, but it does explain the uneven thump punctuating the rattle of chains as the prisoners approached.

The purple-ember eyes of the cowled, cloaked, and more-or-less dressed mechanical entity shift towards the form on the stretcher as he directs the three prisoners to stand along the near-side wall, by the practice bows and padded-head arrows. "Please stay there," he says in a mild tone, then thumps his way over to the Lord Reeve. "Sir."

"Christopher," replies Milo with a courtesy - familiar but respectful - that's been missing even from his conversation with the wizard. "How have they been?"

"Orderly," replies the mechanical man. "Miss Zoraya delivered her antidote approximately two hours past. We gave it to them with their luncheon, so most of the after-effects should be all but gone."

"I suppose that is a good thing," replies the old man dubiously.

Christopher states firmly, "It is the right thing."

"A man should have a clear head when he's on trial for murder?"

"Even so, sir." The mechanical Christopher appears at ease with this decision - even resolute.

Milo sighs, rubbing at the side of his face as he leans on his cane. "I suppose." He gestures Horst, Nissa, and Brooks over. "Christopher, may I present Acolyte Horst IronBrow, a smith; Lady Nissa Alami, swordmistress and exiled noble of the Aryind Dominion; and Professor Theodore Brooks, classical instructor from Plugh. Lady and gentlemen, Christopher Carolus, Provost First, keeper of the Provost cells downstairs, and the long-time interrogator for Mosval." It would appear that in the mind of the Lord Reeve, Carolus outranks you all. Going by the deference he's shown to the ... Provost First, Hostler might have the view that he himself is outranked by the thing, for all that Carolus calls him 'sir' ...

The guards have been there, have been around - though for ten thousand people, there's really but a handful within the city - but the four thugs trailing you (and in that one case getting ahead of your turned-around self) are at least smart enough to simply be strolling along with their thumbs hooked in their belts when they spot a guardsman, or once their archer lookout sends a piping whistle to warn them that one's coming your way.

As you arrive at the forge, turn at bay, and Baltor shouts his challenge, customers turn and look, and the younger boy, Lars, runs out to see what's going on.

The four pause for a seciond, and then the two largest of the thugs stroll past, looking for all of themselves like prejudiced humans curious as to what the hell this damn stuntie stupid enough to walk around wearing stone plates is doing, shouting at ... at them? They aren't stupid, though, they cross in front of the two of you on the other side of the street, pausing at the corner a couple dozen yards down the way to turn and watch 'what's going on'.

The other two, however, are looking amazingly guilty, drawing all sorts of attention since they, at least, appear to be the ones the dwarf is yelling at. After a moment, the non-archer shakes his head, and the archer nods, reaching up to swirl his fingertips around on the top of his head, as if scratching it; he and the other turn and walk away.

After a moment, so do the two gorillas on the other side.

Wary, from the shadow of the yard gate, Lars asks, "Master Baltor, sir? Is everything all right?"

Thug #1: Bluff: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (7) + 4 = 11
Thug #2: Bluff: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 = 21
Thug #3: Bluff: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 = 21
Thug #4: Bluff: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8

... okay, that's frickin' hilarious.

The food provided (tray through a space at floor level, furthest from the hinges) is indeed bland, but still good - barley bread, water, a bland stew of potatoes and turnips, with a smattering of onions and maybe even a bit of mutton dunked in it a few times. After that, it's nothing but put the tray with its bowl and spoon back through the slot, then hurry up and wait ... and maybe try to rest your pounding head a bit.

A few hours later, a solid metal-on-wood rapping on what is probably the guard's desk in the hall calls for your attention, possibly waking you. "Some more food for you," says the gaoler's mild tone. "Please finish the drink; Miss Zoraya's medication will be inside it, adjusted for your size."

It is some time after that, perhaps an hour during which the throbbing subsides radically, that the knocking comes again to call your attention. "Prisoners. Please settle yourself down in front of the door, and place your hands and wrists through the slot through which your food has been delivered."

"That said, the parchment itself might be our only lead; I've sent it up to the scribes of the House of Laughter to see if they can deduce anything about it. If the direction it imposes on this investigation - or at least suggests strongly - is out of the city, then sending a provost won't do much. It might send up a red flag, or just set off the raging hordes early, or something other than keeping the peace - or at least the relative quiet. I want you," he nods to Horst, "to figure out how that knife got here, ask around, see if there are merchants who have recently acquired or sold such a thing. I want you," and here he indicates Brooks, "to look into this drug, figure out where our shadowy bastard could have gotten it from, and see if there's some way to find him from there. And you," he looks again at Nissa, "I think would be best talking to the merchants and their caravaneers, and speak particularly with the Romny - find out whether they've noticed any disquiet to the north, or if they've seen or carried unusual shipments to or from the city, northwards or in any direction - let's not get married to craziness happening to the north, because the desire for greater influence happens among every kindred and kind.

"And I'm asking you three because someone official - a guardsman, a provost, even one of the scouts or a ranger - can button up the lip of a man on the take faster than a halfling can eat a sandwich. You're not trained in investigations, fine - I agree with that, you're not. But because you aren't trained in it also means you have no preconceptions on how to go about it. You'll think differently, act differently, see things differently, react differently. Can you three do that?"

City guards don't seem to be anywhere convenient, that's for sure; Brand being right behind Baltor as the two of you emerge from the cloud, you can push through the denser portion of the crowd right around the point of the assault and, in only a handful of seconds, manage to dodge around a corner.

Brand, however, looking back at the last moment, spots someone leaning out of a third-floor warehouse opening - you know, the big floor-to-ceiling ones with the pulley arm so that cargo can be hauled up right from the street for storage? - and watching the two of you round the corner. Moments after you disappear, there's a sharp whistle over the hubbub of the crowd.

"I'm fine, Burhul," drawls the voice of you valet. "It would seem that our fair maiden may have ... partaken generously last night."

"She did," comes the uncertain-sounding voice of the young man from the inn, David. "I didn't think it was that much, though ..."

"Drugs," comes the mild-mannered voice of the officer of the law outside, "can have different effects on different people - or so I am told. Do any of you have anything you would care to add, or should I arrange for a spare bite to eat while Miss Zoraya sees to the curative she promised - presuming she manages to get Miss River out of danger, that is."

It would serve you as excellent cover for the two of you to get out of dodge, if one of you weren't a plodding, klonking, kludging dwarf. But then again, you haven't seen much more than a double handful of dwarfs around so far today; far more humans in Mosval, after all. As you reach the edge of the mist, you can hear one of the thugs behind you say, "Which way? Which way??"

Another one replies, "Careful, don't get clobbered!!" And while they're only starting out ten or fifteen feet away, going by sight they might as well be on the moon - and in the couple or three seconds that follow, it doesn't look like they're coming through at anything resembling normal speed. Smart tactics, to not rush into a counter-ambush ... but hopefully it'll mean they lose their prey, i.e. you.

The crowd that you're moving into doesn't look happy, though - a number of peoples' eyes look a little wild about the edges, and at least a handful of stevedores and dockworkers are reaching for boathooks and pieces of timber.

"No 'of', Lady Alami - and no plural. There are no other reeves under my direction." The linguistic correction - after two or three errors said to him or within earshot - is given rather absent-mindedly as the Lord Reeve watches the entertainment of Logic and Faith getting into a philosophical tussle. "Nonetheless, you have a very pertinent question. I am, in fact, requesting and requiring your assistance in this matter - specifically because you are not in the government, and so you are only a very remote suspect in the embezzelment and, I am moderately confident, not guilty of the murder." The cool, calculating grey eyes of the old man behind the desk shift back over to Nissa. "And while I have suspicions on who's been siphoning monies out of the Purse in my care," and you can hear the capitalization of the word, "Right now those suspicions are not firm enough to allow me to apply the law - or even execute justice." He smiles thinly at the latter.

"However," Hostler continues, "this murder suggests to me - strongly - that someone is either panicking or very, very dangerous. I want to get an outside angle on this - someone they're not expecting, someone from outside the Provosts. That's where the three of you come in," and he gestures at Nissa, Horst, and Theodore. "I want you to find my murderer for me."

"And what about us?" pipes up the gnome mage, her bird settled back onto her chair, the second one having left with the halfling.

"You, Mistress Farview, I thought might want to witness the execution of a request I'm making of Master Zooskin," replies the Lord Provost.

"Which is?" asks the hale master-mage.

"That blood-of-the-slain spell you used in the Partridge case. How long would it take you to prepare?"

Zooskin's face folds into a frown. "Hm. Half an hour, forty-five minutes. Why? Do you have a sample?" Silence echoes through the room as Milo looks at him with a mild sort of disgust, until the wizard snorts laughter. "Okay, a stupid question. Where, for the casting?"

"Just outside," says the Lord Reeve. "I have four suspects downstairs, but I've been told they couldn't have done it. I'd like confirmation."

"All right. Larissa, care to come with me?" The mage rises from his seat, leaving it in its place instead of putting it back. (Clearly a mild but running conflict between the two.)

"Absolutely," she replies, standing and walking down the ramp behind the three of you before exiting with Zooskin.

The old man behind the desk looks at Baltor, or perhaps past him to the fireplace, for several long moments. Finally, he speaks again: "That will be all, Nelson. Thank you. Seal those when they're dry, please, and put them with the evidence for this case."

Nelson doesn't reply, only standing, sanding the papers, and with a few well-rehearsed movements extracts himself from the room.

Silence again for a moment, and then the Lord Reeve looks at each of you in turn before speaking. "What I want," he says, enunciating his words very precisely, "is for you to find the bastard that did this. I want you to find him no matter where the hell he goes, or is from. If you're in the city, you turn him over to the Provosts. If you aren't, you finalize the son-of-a-b!tch and bring me his head so I can put it on Lydia Rasmussen's grave and apologize to her for failing her by not catching the bastard before he could hurt her.

"More," adds the de facto ruler of the Duchy of Mosval, "I want you to find who this creep is working for. This is a very thick and vibrant thread in the tapestry of this whole problem. If pulling and following that thread leads you to it, find out if this is linked to the druid's predicted invasion, if our own money is paying for a bunch of greenskins to come howling down out of the north and chop us into dogfood. I want you to grip the thread, follow it where-ever it goes, and rip this bastard's tapestry into shreds.

"Any suggestions, questions ... refusals?"

The door closes behind her, the shadows in the hall beyond moving down to the next cell. You can hear it open up, and your co-accused, co-imprisoned, or however you care to view it does not seem to be making any additional noise; a short number of moments after it closes, there are words exchanged between healer and gaoler, sounding urgent, and then a thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP sound as your initial inquisitor hurries back along the hallway.

Not too long afterwards, the city officer returns with at least two other people, who hurry by your cell and, after the opening of the door, into the other one. There is muted conversation after that, between the lady who examined you and the two who just entered, but after about ten or so minutes, the three of them emerge and troop back out of the cell block.

"I wonder what that was about," wonders Arthur with that faintly snobbish tone that suggests he doesn't actually care.

The Lord Reeve watches the man and dwarf depart, then glances over the rest of the group with a calculating eye. "Mister Dardragon, my apologies, but though I thank you for your time and task, I must request your departure as well. If you'll find Mr. Host, he'll see to your payment. And as always ..."

The young halfling male slips off his chair. "Keep everything I saw and heard behind my fingernails and teeth, yes sir." He gives a credible bow, and trots out of the room.

Milo Hostler, Lord Reeve for the Duke of Mosval in absentia, sighs and kneads at his forehead with his fingertips. "Well. All right." He thinks for a moment, then lowers his hand back to its mate. "Master Stoneheart's information doesn't alter the problem of today. That problem," he notes for the benefit of the two mages, "is a murder, and a rather ... obscene one. That would be of concern on its own, but what was found afterwards," and he nods to Nissa to acknowledge her discovery, "makes of it a far more serious problem - one that ties into an issue that has been growing in the City for several years."

He glances around the room and adds, somewhat acerbically, "I hope I don't need to caution anyone here not to talk about it, but as young Dardragon said, everything we talk about here - really, everything you've seen and heard today - needs to be closely-held. That means you don't talk about it to anyone not in this room, with the only exception being Matthew Host, the Provost First. You don't write about it in your diary or for anyone else to read, and by the Father, if you move your lips when you pray, don't even pray about it until I tell you it's okay to do so.

"That being understood," he continues, "first things first: the facts. A serving-girl at the Sword of Boram inn, Lydia Rasmussen by name, was tied spread-eagled to a table, raped, and then murdered by way of a high-end dagger being hammered through her heart, her entire body, and the table beneath. She was discovered just before dawn by Alexander de Navan, once Lieutenant in the Warden Scouts, current owner of the inn. He sent for the Acolyte that had performed dawn services, which in the event was Acolyte Horst IronBrow," and here he offers his hand palm-up at Horst in introduction; both mages, gnome female and human male, look at Horst and nod in acknowledgement.

"de Navan also sent for the Provosts; Beatrice and I had been up, and I elected to undertake the start of the investigation myself. Knowing the skill of Professor Theodore Brooks," another hand gesture to introduce the Professor and silent acknowledgement by the mages, "in these regards, I sent a page to ask him to attend. For other reasons of skill, I also sent a page to the home of Lady Nissa Alami," and a third open-handed introduction, along with acknowledgement by the two mages, "to ask her to attend as well. The subsequent examination provided the information I've already related. In addition, underneath the bed of one of the two guests upstairs was found a small chest," here he uses his hands to gesture the approximate size of the chest (and he's pretty accurate about it, too), "which was recovered by Lady Nissa.

"Now we come to information new to all of you. Inside the chest was discovered three hundred and six Old Chits, as well as a trade-bar of silver - a very significant sum, equal to half the quarterly cost of running Mosval." He pauses for a moment, then clarifies: "Not the city - the duchy." It isn't something most people think about, but considering the size of the Scouts, the Rangers, and the effort put out by the three Ruling Lords in regards to the surrounding towns, Mosval still retains a significant, if not significantly overt, hand in the business of the cities and towns that surround it. This, of course, would be the reason why the Lord Reeve finds it to be 'in his interest' to hear news from Kedron's Tor and the Keeper of the Crowsfoot Godswood - it is part of his responsibility to see that they are as protected as the city of Mosval itself.

While the amount makes Larissa Farview blink in uncertainty, Master Zooskin straightens up in amazement. "How much??" he asks with incredulity.

"Just under thirteen hundred crowns," comes the Lord Reeve's deliberately bland reply, naming the largest-denomination coin commonly used. "Or about a sixth of the monies that have disappeared off the duchy's books over the past three years. The murder is reason enough to hold the guests for interrogation; the contents of the chest makes it all the more pressing, especially in light of the suspicion that we are facing an invasion. It would prove ... unpleasantly ironic were we to be funding our own deaths."

So congratulations, you have your massive sword, and your fine axes and bow, and you're heading through the streets of Mosval. The fine area of the city, right next to the Fortress, is a very fine area indeed, with several places that have been in business for literally thousands of years, barring the odd greenskin invasion, dragon occupation, or siege. Crossing the river, on the other hand, puts you almost immediately into one of the bad areas of town - the docks area. The only place worse is the tanneries further south and east along the lakeshore, but fortunately for your noses those are a ways off. Around here, stevedores load and unload cargoes, those coming from or going to the north, or those coming to or leaving the city, heading south. Furs make up a sizeable portion of the exports, while various luxuries make up the majority of imports.

There is general chaos and disruption all about you as you make your way down one of the several streets that parallel the river before they head uphill; it's chaos and mayhem all around you. That, perhaps, is why you delay turning when there's a sudden thudding rush of feet from behind you, followed by belaying pins being swung at your heads.

Zooskin's expression as he looks at Baltor is one of contempt and disgust; he turns to say something to the reeve, but something in his gaze warns the mage to keep his thoughts on the back side of his teeth, at least for the moment. Rolling his eyes, he looks away, at Nelson, who in his turn is glancing up every few moments to assess the situation.

So, apparently, is the Lord Reeve, who (brow still furrowed) examines Baltor, then Brand, with minute detail. "I see," he finally says. "Well. Warden Stoneheart, thank you for stopping by to inform the City, and we wish you good luck on your journey. I believe there is a caravan heading to Ice Bay leaving the morning after tomorrow; they should undoubtedly be glad for an extra sword and a stone warden along to smooth the road. To speed you on your way, I will send a recommendation for you to the caravan master. If you care to take note of the road's conditions and where we might best spend what coin we have in repairs, I am certain the Lord Guardian, Sir Heinrich von Tavish, would be glad of the information should you care to send a message." At the call of her name, the girl Beatrice opens the door and will escort Baltor and Brand to where they can recover their weaponry on their way out of the Fortress.

'Get outta my town and don't come back' is rarely said so politely.

The Romny woman rises to her feet, looking at you. "Be at your ease, I think. With the knowing of how everyone is, then I have the knowing of when you drank it, and if you are innocent of whatever the tin men are doing the accusing of which, then if their when is after my when, you are fully innocent. If before ..." She trails off, then shrugs and gives a half-smile. "If before, then you need a better knowing than what I have."

With that, she steps to the door and taps on it; as it is unlocking, she reaches up to lift the lamps off their loops.

Baltor, though, can easily name a handful of examples from each place he's studied at - yes, and the Tor too - where the requirements of stone, earth, and nature have gone against the desires of those sentients living in the area. Settlers are driven out, mining stopped, dams destroyed in order to re-establish a necessary balance in nature. Baltor himself has gone out of his way to make sure that the fewest people possible were harmed, but balance sometimes comes at a cost - especially when people refuse to follow good advice and leave what they think of as their own. So 'working for the same end' ... might be true in Baltor's case. It's clear the Lord Reeve has a more cynical view of Keeper Grassborn and his ilk.

Nelson needs nearly no time to catch up, writing-wise; within a couple of scritches of his pen, he glances up and waits with the rest of those in the room for Baltor to speak on.

And then Warden Stoneheart smashes the barrel of lamp oil and tosses a torch into the room. While the Lord Reeve's brow creases deeply, he at least doesn't burst into words, like two others:

Mistress Farview: "Wait, that can't be possible!! The kolshi'ichanth have been gone for thousands and thousands of years, they died off --"

Master Zooskin: "You have to be kidding me, we're meant to believe that some children's fable is about to start terrorizing --"

The way to the Provosts' office isn't a logical one, so Beatrice manage to nip back to the front of the tromping pack of dwarves and humans (okay, so Adhÿpiķ Alami isn't one to tromp) and lead the way. When you get near to the door itself, she skips a step, then runs ahead, ducking through the door to go warn her grandfather of the incoming flow of humanity.

For those of you who haven't been here before, a quick explanation: Provost Hall is a peculiar mixture of desk duties and combat practice; on the fourth floor along the river wall, half of the long, low, wide room continues to be used for its original purpose, as a salle; this time, as you enter through a door in one of the 'short' sides of the room, there is nobody practicing, but there are painted-out lanes (some of them oddly shaped), racks of wooden practice weapons (none larger than a longsword) along the side wall, and chalk-spattered targets on the far side of the room, perhaps requiring the archers (for there is a rack with bows and barrels of arrows on the wall by the doorway through which you enter) to shoot through or past whatever individuals are working out. A failure to fire past them would definitely be a problem for the person struck.

To your left, closest to the expanded arrow slits on the outside wall, rests a column of desks which all face the door through which you came; each desk possesses a lamp on a hook able to brighten its surface late at night. One individual works at the desk furthest from you, correlating paperwork and making frequent notes. At the far end, directly opposite the door through which you have just walked, is another door; there, Beatrice speaks to someone inside, and the lot of you (as you approach) can see a halfling sitting in a chair.

Beatrice steps away from the door, towards you, and says, "Go on in; I've let him know of your friends." What little she could, that is; probably something along the lines of 'Acolyte IronBrow is bringing up another dwarf he knows, and a human with the dwarf!' The man correlating the information has a mild, almost diffident appearance, and wears a pair of spectacles; he does, however, look up at the party of you as you stride up along the line of desks, watching you for several moments before resuming his work.

Again for those of you who've not seen it, the office beyond the door in the back of the room is moderately large, but more austere than most rumor would have the office of one of the three Lords who are the functional rulers of Mosval to be; the majority of it is taken up by a sizeable desk on the near end (just out of sight from the door) and a fireplace on the other. An arc of chairs faces his desk, a total of seven of them - four for the tallfolk and three for the smallfolk, the latter on a platform that places the smallfolk's faces at the height of the tallfolk's, those seats reached by a discrete set of steps behind them. A youngish (late 20's, early 30's) halfling sits there, his gaze shifting towards the five of you.

In the large but only lightly padded chair behind the desk sits a dour-faced, dried-up, wrinkled old kernel of a man, clad in simple but well-tailored black. His dark eyes are still sharp enough to watch each of you enter; his political acumen is sharp enough to let you stand there for a moment before leaning forward and touching his fingertips together. "Well, Acolyte IronBrow?"

It is perhaps a sign of the headache that you have that you don't manage to look up and catch a glimpse of whomever has been talking to you from outside the cell, for by the time you look up, there are already clankings and thumpings happening, and the door opens enough to allow in 'Miss Zoraya'. The human woman is clearly one of the Romny, that loose affiliation / extended clan of wanderers, performers, fortune tellers, minor traders, and thieves - depending on who you talk to, or what your own experiences have been. She carries a pair of very bright lamps, which she hangs on small loops of twine which protrude from the wall on either side of the doorway; it doesn't make looking at the door (now closed, slide/thump/clatter/clack) impossible, but it makes it difficult - especially with the wonderful light sensitivity that it seems your headache includes.

She smiles, and will help you up if you need it (standing up is a chore with this kind of skull pounding), and will ask you to face the light. Presuming you don't do anything nasty to her, she'll inspect your eyes, the skin of your face and neck, ask you to remove your shirt and carefully inspect your chest and, after asking you to turn around, your back; the inside of your upper arms as well as the insides of your wrists are particular areas of examination as well. She'll ask you to exhale strongly right into her face, though she'll have her eyes closed (very vulnerable that way), her nostrils flaring as she smells your breath; she'll even ask you to do it again, two or three more times. Immediately afterwards, she'll ask you to open your mouth wide and stick your tongue out, tilting your head down - because she isn't a tall woman.

Miss Zoraya will then warn you that she's going to handle your face and eyes, and take a close look at each of your eyes in turn, peeling down (and up) your eyelids as she does. Once she's done that, she'll press her hands to your neck, right next to your throat, her fingertips carefully massaging the underside of your chin and pressing against a couple of swollen lumps you didn't know were there. It's painful when she presses against them, but it wasn't before; perhaps you were distracted by the pounding all around the inside of your skull.

"You," she says to you, "must have drunken a good bit of it. Fortunately for you, I know what it is. You'll be fine by tonight if I don't come back, but I'll see if I can't find the necessary herbs here in the Fortress, mix up something to relieve your headache. Have any questions?"

There is silence after Burhul's words - well, not exactly, because there is the scritch-scritch-scritch of pen-nib on paper. After a bit, though, the voice replies. "I have been instructed not to divulge that information," he says. "I have been informed, however, that you will each be seen by a local healer, to see to your well-being and in an attempt to identify the substance used upon you - presuming you behave. If you individually do not, the healer's services will be denied to you, and you can recover in your own time."

A few moments pass, and the man continues. "Your apology is accepted. I am somewhat familiar with Ice Bay; thank you for your statement of the relative size of the Firth Trade League amonst the other ... trade leagues to be found there, and your statement of interest in increasing trade between your group and Mosval.

"Miss River, do you have any revisions of your background to reveal?"

Stirring the Old Chits, however, will reveal on the bottom of the chest a folded sheet, now thoroughly soaked in that oil. "We'd like," says Matthew drily, "to take possession, if you don't mind."

Presuming you don't mind, Matthew pulls on a pair of thin but stained kidskin gloves and gestures one of the two burly guards closer. "Get a bowl for this goop. And a lock-box." By the time the fellow turns and starts for the door, Matthew is already pulling the folded sheet out of the chest.

"Beatrice." It's the old man. "Immediately locate Mistress Farview and Master Zoosken, and inform them that I request their presence at their earliest convenience. Then see if Professor Brooks, Lady Alami, and Acolyte IronBrow are still at luncheon downstairs. Inform them that I request and require their presence. You may return here afterwards."

"Yes, my Lord." The girl takes off at a dead run.

Darby does not, unfortunately, see what's on the sheet; the Lord Reeve started around the desk to head towards the office in back. "Mister Dardragon, will you follow me, please?" It isn't a request.

The office beyond the door in the back of the room is moderately large, but more austere than most rumor would have the Lord Reeve's office to be; the majority of it is taken up by a sizeable desk on the near end (just out of sight from where you were working) and a fireplace on the other. An arc of chairs faces his desk, a total of seven of them - four for the tallfolk and three for the smallfolk, the latter on a platform that once again places the smallfolk's faces at the height of the tallfolk's, those seats reached by a discrete set of steps behind them.

The Lord Reeve moves to the chair behind his desk, one that is large but only lightly padded; he sinks down into it, gesturing you towards the smallfolk seats. "A quick estimate on your part, Mister Dardragon. I might say 'suspiciously swift', but I know what you do, and for whom. Tell me, however: have you ever discovered such an amount of wealth in any of the tombs or sites you've investigated?"

FYI, no, you have not. You've found, at best, half that; usually a lot less, and the lion's share always goes to your patrons / financiers, for whom sending you off to investigate a site is an investment from which they expect a positive return. Six thousand plus is a HUGE chunk of change, and might be equal the budget for the entire city government - including the guard, judges, provosts, army, everything - for three months, maybe half a year.

Housing the Mosval government, the Fortress was previously the home of the ducal line, rebuilt after the frostwyrm's dominance (and their eradication) more than seven hundred years ago. Though the council still holds the city 'in the Duke's name', it's commonly accepted that that's a fiction, and 'when the duke returns' is local for 'never'. Nonetheless, the sixty foot walls are impressively tall, as is the twenty-foot gate. The drawbridge over the fast-flowing Tumbler Canal is raised and lowered at least once a day, though it's been more than two centuries since it's been done due to battle.

Gaining entrance into the Fortress isn't difficult; you leave your significant weapons (bows, axes, crossbows, swords, that sort of thing) at the gate-house, keeping your daggers and such, and head into the Great Hall; there, a clerk can usually have you wait, or send you off to where-ever you need to go. You inform the clerk that you're there to give a deposition to the Provosts, and off you go; directions are even easier than that if you're accompanying the Lord Reeve the way the two of you are. (You still need to surrender your gear, though, and in the Professor's case, this includes his ... 'other' gear. Early morning summonses might work off a different rule; who knows.)

Inside and roundabout and up a couple flights of stairs, Provost Hall is a peculiar mixture of desk duties and combat practice; on the fourth floor along the river wall, half of the long, low, wide room continues to be used for its original purpose, as a salle; as you enter through a door in one of the 'short' sides, you can see several sections of painted-out lanes (some of them oddly shaped) within which those practicing are meant to work. It's clearly meant to train them for close-quarters work; meanwhile, at the far side of the room, there are man-shaped straw-padded targets with chalk smears on them, and a line along the wall next to the door - archers are clearly meant to stand there and learn the skills of firing through melee without hitting their compatriots.

To your left, closest to the expanded arrow slits, rests a column of desks facing the door you came in; each desk possesses a lamp on a hook able to brighten its surface late at night. When Professor Brooks and Lady (or is it Miss?) Alami enter, the ten desks are full of provosts, reading reports and making notations; the Lord Provost leads you at a steady (but not rapid) pace down the line of desks to the door at the far end, and it may be notable that none of the Provosts so much as look at the quartet marching past. Beatrice accepts the ring of keys he produces and unlocks and opens the wide door, returning the keys to him; the Lord Reeve leads the way inside.

The office beyond the door in the back of the room is moderately large, but more austere than most rumor would have the Lord Reeve's office to be; the majority of it is taken up by a sizeable desk on the near end (just out of sight from where you were working) and a fireplace on the other. An arc of chairs faces his desk, a total of seven of them - four for the tallfolk and three for the smallfolk, the latter on a platform that once again places the smallfolk's faces at the height of the tallfolk's, those seats reached by a discrete set of steps behind them.

The Lord Reeve moves to the chair behind his desk, one that is large but only lightly padded; he sinks down into it, gesturing you two to enter, and for each of you to place your burdens - the evidence case for the Professor, the small chest for Nissa - on his desk. "Nelson!!" the Lord Provost says in a loud voice.

In two breaths, a mild-looking bespectacled man of indeterminate age - he's got one of those faces that a few men (and most elves) keep from their early twenties until their late fifties - appears in the doorway.

"Have Matthew come here at his earliest convenience," the old man tells him. "Then send two someones down to Solly deWitt's establishment and get him here half an hour ago. Standard plus twenty percent, and don't take any crap - arrest him if that's what you have to do in order to get him here."

Nelson nods, and vanishes back into the main room.

The old man then lifts his hands to run them up above his temples. "Beatrice - no, I'm sorry, one moment." Opening one of the drawers in his desk, he reaches into it for a few moments, looking at whatever is in there, then retrieves first one, then a second small pouch. "Professor," he says, moving one pouch out a bit towards the man, then opens the second. After a moment of thought, he tugs it closed again and lifts it, offering it to Nissa. "My Lady," he says, "thank you for your assistance, both that which you gave and that which you were prepared to give. Now, if the two of you will accompany Beatrice, she can see you to two of my provosts who can take your statements."

The two of you will each receive 150 light pennies - copper coins the size of US quarters, worth 2 CP each. Copper is the most frequently used coinage, just as an FYI. OOCly, it's 3gp, pretty darn good money for one morning's work. I went off the hireling rates - 1 GP for a physician's services, and 1 GP/day for hazardous-level contingency services, multiplied by your PC level in this case. Theoretically, it could have been anywhere from half to a quarter of that, but the Lord Reeve has his reasons. ;)

Housing the Mosval government, the Fortress was previously the home of the ducal line, rebuilt after the frostwyrm's dominance (and their eradication) more than seven hundred years ago. Though the council still holds the city 'in the Duke's name', it's commonly accepted that that's a fiction, and 'when the duke returns' is local for 'never'. Nonetheless, the sixty foot walls are impressively tall, as is the twenty-foot gate. The drawbridge over the fast-flowing Tumbler Canal is raised and lowered at least once a day, though it's been more than two centuries since it's been done due to battle.

Gaining entrance into the Fortress isn't difficult; you leave your significant weapons (bows, axes, crossbows, swords, that sort of thing) at the gate-house, keeping your daggers and such, and head into the Great Hall; there, a clerk can usually have you wait, or send you off to where-ever you need to go. You inform the clerk that you're there to give a deposition to the Provosts, and off you go.

Inside and roundabout and up a couple flights of stairs, Provost Hall is a peculiar mixture of desk duties and combat practice; on the fourth floor along the river wall, half of the long, low, wide room continues to be used for its original purpose, as a salle; as you enter through a door in one of the 'short' sides, you can see several sections of painted-out lanes (some of them oddly shaped) within which those practicing are meant to work. It's clearly meant to train them for close-quarters work; meanwhile, at the far side of the room, there are man-shaped straw-padded targets with chalk smears on them, and a line along the wall next to the door - archers are clearly meant to stand there and learn the skills of firing through melee without hitting their compatriots.

To your left, closest to the expanded arrow slits, rests a column of desks facing the door you came in; each desk possesses a lamp on a hook able to brighten its surface late at night. When you enter, a young adult halfling male is at a desk almost at the far side, working on the chest Miss Alami discovered; he seems oblivious to a mild-looking bespectacled man of indeterminate age - he's got one of those faces that a few men (and most elves) keep from their early twenties until their late fifties - using two daggers to keep the young Beatrice (with rapier and dagger) at bay, or perhaps forcing her to keep him at bay. The three of them are the only ones in the room when you enter.

Beatrice and the dagger-wielding man hold their tableau for a moment, and then the latter moves, almost more quickly than the eye can follow. Beatrice performs three not-ungraceful warding slashes with her rapier, but the length of steel is caught and, with a skirr of steel-on-steel, partially bound out of the way; the man slips in, raps the flat of his other blade on her forearm, then slips back out of reach, and a few steps more. He crosses his daggers in front of him, holding them there until Beatrice recovers and crosses her blades as well.

That seems to signal the end of the bout, for both of them straighten up; the man then looks with deliberation towards you, causing Beatrice to turn her head. "Ah, Acolyte IronBrow." She approaches, and gives a bow, something she's clearly not used to doing. "Thank you for coming so promptly. If you'll step this way, my ... Lord wanted to see you before you gave your statement."

She leads the way to the door at the far end, which is partway open. Tapping upon it, she says, "My Lord, Acolyte IronBrow is here."

"Send him in, please. Is Dardragon still at it?"

"Yes sir," the girl replies.

"Well, I wouldn't want to burst into fire either," comments the old man mildly. "Thank you, Beatrice. Wait outside a moment."

"Yes, my Lord."

The office beyond the door in the back of the room is moderately large, but more austere than most rumor would have the Lord Reeve's office to be; the majority of it is taken up by a sizeable desk on the near end (just out of sight from where you were working) and a fireplace on the other. An arc of chairs faces his desk, a total of seven of them - four for the tallfolk and three for the smallfolk, the latter on a platform that once again places the smallfolk's faces at the height of the tallfolk's, those seats reached by a discrete set of steps behind them.

The Lord Reeve sits in a large but only lightly-padded chair behind his desk. "Thank you for coming so promptly, Acolyte - or do you prefer Master? - IronBrow. Has the time for poor Lydia's funeral been set?"[b] He opens a drawer to his right, looking down into it for a moment before extracting a small pouch. Extending his arm towards you, he sets it down with a faint *chink* of coinage, for you to retrieve at the end of the conversation. [b]"The city mourns her death," he says, then indicates the pouch, "this being but a poor physical manifestation of it. With your assistance, we shall discover the perpetrator."

After the details of Lydia's funeral are exchanged, he calls Beatrice back, and she escorts you off to a Provost who will take your statement.

Lunch, like other general meals, is served in the great hall; all parts of the city government who are in the Fortress will typically share lunch. You can, in fact, see the Lord Seneschal sharing lunch with several older folk, solid and thoughtful looking persons (two male humans, one female human, a male gnome, and a male dwarf) with whom he undoubtedly discusses something both portentious and political; Baronet Rothchilde always seems to work hard at keeping his finger on the political pulse of the city.

The food is good, hot, filling, the smallbeer not terrible - but not spectacular. Of course, all the eateries nearby are the really expensive ones, so ... simple is good, since it's free, right? Nearing the end of the meal, however ...

Despite a foggy start to your day, the two of you were able to get underway relatively early; the road that passes the area of the godswood is relatively well-travelled, and leaving by 7:30 (about a half-hour after dawn) you'll make it into Mosval somewhat before lunch while a light wind rises to disperse the fog. The temperature has risen as well, from a very chill early morning with cold dew blanketing the ground, to a toasty pre-lunchtime that's encouraged you to take off your jacket from the morning.

Though it's been a few years since Baltor has been to Mosval, it is the home-base for the caravans that Brand serves as scout and guard for, so between the two of them they will locate the IronBrow Forge pretty easily. Locating the forgemaster, however, is another thing entirely.

"No sir, says Njorl, who has been pounding iron and steel at the forge while the human girl at the front takes care of typical sales and orders. The near-adult young dwarf has recognized Baltor from those few years ago, hence the volunteered information. "He left to conduct morning services - he's in the rotation, you see - but didn't return until ... maybe a candlemark ago? Maybe a little less than that. But then he turned around and headed down to the Fortress. He didn't say anything," he adds, "but Father stonewalls when he gets upset, so whatever's happened, he's unhappy about it. If you like," he adds, "you can leave your things here while you go down there. Hi! Lars!! Get Master Baltor's cart into the yard!!"

Lars, the near-teen dwarf, appears at the forge's opened panel-walls few moments after his name is called out, then grins at Baltor and Brand. "Sure thing!" comes the reply, and the boy is off at a trot.

Gaining entrance into the Fortress isn't difficult; you leave your significant weapons (bows, axes, crossbows, swords, that sort of thing) at the gate-house, keeping your daggers and such, and head into the Great Hall; there, a clerk can usually have you wait, or send you off to where-ever you need to go. At the moment, though, the Great Hall is host to a sizeable number of trestle tables, benches, and numerous members of the city government, guards, and such. Fortunately ...

... a dwarf at his food, speaking with two humans, spies a dwarf entering the Great Hall, accompanied by a human of his own.

Continue under the header '... And It's Only Lunch-Time'. Aaaand go!!

The eyebrows of both Milo and Matthew go up at your near-immediate sweat production; Matthew's is more obvious, but an astute halfling such as yourself can spot the slight lift to the Lord Reeve's eyebrows as well.

Ten minutes isn't the time it takes you to crack the thing; ten minutes is the time it takes you to be fairly certain that you can try to pick it without setting yourself ... probably on fire, you'd guess. And with the stuff on your hands, well, you'd be looking at some pretty bad burns on them. Not life-threatening, no, but bad enough to put you out of the 'open stuff up for the gendarmes' business, which is probably what sent Solly deWitt off in a tizzy. Of course, Solly makes locks for a living, so getting his hands fried would put him out of business for a good month or so.

But it still means that you need to unlock the thing.

The young woman, looking a little startled to be addressed, shakes her head. "No, sir," she replies. "Just ... trying to, um, find my balance again, like my combat teacher would say." She continues to watch as you shift from making sure the clever (even revolutionary!) flint-and-steel-wheel contraption doesn't work to dissecting the equally-small (and equally elegant) lock.

Between sticky stuff, wanting to Make Bloody Sure you don't manage to hitch that latch on the flint-and-steel scraper again, and basically working with a rather finely-made lock indeed, you take your time - and almost an hour - to persuade the lock to open itself up. The moment you succeed and straighten out of your focus on the little chest, your belly - which has been quite courteous and understanding, dammit!! - grrowls like a feral cat whose food is threatened. It is (after all) well past lunch time, and your sister is probably having thirds right now.

Feed Me, Welby!!

On the other hand, the lock is undone, the trap is disabled, and within the office on the other side of the previously-closed door at the end of the hall (opposite whence you came in) the girl notices you straightening up and giving your back a press. She says something (what, you can't hear at this range), and a moment or two later jumps down from her stool and trots out. "Mister Dardragon? Are you done? If you are, my Lord asks you to wait before opening, please. He'll be out shortly, and I'm off to find Master Matthew so he can witness as well. If you like," she nods and gestures back towards the door you came in, "there's food next door while you wait; I'll come get you when I've found Master Matthew."

Food sounds great, so there you go (while two Provosts step towards the desk, but stop outside of staff range and turn to make sure nobody approaches the closed chest). Perhaps fifteen minutes later, a somewhat-more-out-of-breath young lady pauses at the door to the small dining room. "Mister Dardragon?"

Back into the Provost's work room, where Master Matthew and Lord Milo await your presence at Desk Eight. 'Tis up to you to do the big reveal ...

... and when you do, 'tis a trade bar and coinage, resting inside a small pool of the liquid, all on top of what looks like it used to be a fairly fine velvet interior.

A silver trade bar. And a double-halfling-handful of gold Old Chits ...

An Old Chit is an in-game gold coin about 2/3 the size of a US dime, worth (the very-non-game-world) 20 gp; rough it in at around 300 of them. A trade bar runs about 4" (100mm) long by 2" (50mm) wide by over 1" thick (30mm); a silver trade bar is worth 315 gp. I'll let you do the math. :D

"Business of the church, Ms. River? We will, of course, act to verify any information you give us, but you have yet to give us information to verify. You do not know the name of your parents, the name of the city or town or village where you were born, grew up, or the city or town or village in which you have spent the last days, weeks, months, or years - to wit, that from which you come. You possess the appearance of a half-elven maiden in her third or fourth decade, and yet you ... what, came into existence three bowshots away from the West Gate, with skill and knowledge ingrained, and with not only the fact of your sudden existence but the very reason for it suddenly placed - by the Gods, for certain - within the minds of the clergy of Mosval?" The male's voice is cool, collected, and eminently reasonable; his question, however fantastical its positing, is issued as if with only the mildest of curiousity.* "I believe I shall give you a few moments to think up a more plausable-sounding falsehood.

"So we turn to you, Mister Dha'zeek. Please correct me on what lies you have spoken; I have spoken none, nor implied any by omission. Nor, I will confess, have I said or implied anything about fairness; I believe I have alluded specifically to the potential for torture which, while it is always an option, is personally distasteful to me, because of the post-process cleaning it entails, which for me tends to be considerable. I have also stated, most forthrightly I must add, that a decision has been made - which decision is above my pay-grade, as they say - to keep the facts from you. However, to the answers and questions.

"You say that you and your purported lackey came from the north. Can you be more specific than that, please? The north, you understand, is a considerable place. Tinniton? Westfalls? Blackbough? Further north? And what business are you speaking of? Again, please be specific; details lie at the heart of information, fact, guilt, and innocence.

"As for what happened, why - someone had a very rowdy night last night, and we are trying to determine who made the splash. The locals are ignorant of the identity of the individual who commissioned it. If perchance you and Ms. River would cease being obstructionary and simply answer my questions, we could (as you stated) stop wasting time. I do not expect you to do so, however, and will regret not being disappointed in this."

* - Think Count Rugen from The Princess Bride for this voice and attitude.

Desk eight is just down the way, not in another part of the room; on the other hand, there isn't a duo trying to fence their way back and forth through painted lines, pretending they're in a garbage-strewn alley or the hallway of a house.

"The nature of its story is not pertinent at the moment," suggests Matthew in a mild sort of voice, even as his eyebrows lift at the clear eagerness with which you start handling the small casque. "I ... would have warned you about what you've just jumped so eagerly into handling, but if it's a poison like I think, both you and Solly deWitt" - that's the name of the gnome fellow who's perhaps the best locksmith in town, but who concentrates a little less on the 'things that make unpleasant events happen to people who pick locks' side of things - "are going to be very interesting examples of whatever it is."

The old man gives a thin smile. "When you take it to your alchemist, you can find out. And warn Master deWitt afterwards, since he got a face-full of it."

Matthew smiles. "I'll consider it, though with Solly, how could you tell? In any case, if you don't carry it level, the stuff still leaks out through the keyhole."

"Presuming you succeed," adds the old man, "please call us before opening the chest; if it contains what I suspect it does, you will very much want to have witnesses." He glances around, then eyes the young woman. "Beatrice here will remain within earshot to come find us once you're finished."

The chest is, as was said, rather oily. Is there a trap?  There is a trap, oh yes there is.  It's not especially clever, but opening the lock - or even trying seriously to open the lock - will earn you a spin and a scrape, flint on steel, not unlike the new flint-and-wheel automatic-sparking lamp- and torch-lighting devices the gnomes have been making (and selling for two silver crowns a pop) out of their Golden Path monastery located up on the peak of Vale Ridge, overlooking Shina Lake.  And if that's true, then the liquid ... should be something flammable.  Ideally something highly flammable, if you were the one building a trap into this little box.  Something that clung.

Which means your task is to get the box open without the wheel turning again.  Okay, yeah, that might make things a little harder ...

After about ten minutes - it's tight quarters in there, and you are handicapped by the fact that if you make it turn At All, you might send yourself and the box up in flames - you're confident that the wheel has been properly unshipped from the latch that will turn it if the lock mechanism is turned. A glance up will show that both Matthew and the Lord Reeve have moved up a desk to number nine, looking at things taken from a leather folio carrier and a smaller, more compact case. The young woman remains, sitting backwards astride a chair, arms crossed over the top as she watches you at work. On reflection, she looks a little pale.

He regards the chest revealed for a moment, tilting his head to eye another side before reaching out to pull it towards him. The old man grunts softly in surprise at the thing's weight - a good ten or fifteen pounds, despite obviously being made of wood - and, gradually lifting one end until it's standing on the other, listens to a slow, slithering metallic sound that comes from inside. "Hm. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Alami. " He looks up as the two Provosts return for their third and final load. "Pavel," he states, and the middle-aged one pauses, holding up a hand to make the younger (Kassenbaum) hold up for a moment as well. "Take Miss Alami upstairs and have her run through the finding of this casque for me," he instructs, tapping on the wooden chest. Pavel bows with one arm offering for Nissa to lead the way, following her up. "Master IronBrow, can you assist young Kassenbaum --"

The inn's inner door opens, the girl Beatrice peeking inwards. "My Lord? The wagon from the temple has arrived."

The old man sighs. "Professor, can you assist Kassenbaum with the last of the prisoners, then? Master IronBrow, you have more sublime duties to attend to, and I leave them to you, and you to them. Please come down to the Fortress when your part is done, both to make a report on what you witnessed and - by your grace - to let us know of the date and time of the girl's funeral. Beatrice, you can let in the people from the temple."

"Yes, my Lord." She slips back out.

Of course, the aurochs can't see in the dark either, so it's a good thing that both of you have made good use of your time. Like every other godsplace, though, the surrounding several miles are unfriendly to wheeled methods of transport; like most godsplaces, only those who truly wish to reach it can do so. The road between Mosval and Moosejaw is now little better than a two-rut track, but that's better by far than picking your way around fallen trees and finding fords you can get a wagon over; the two of you will reach the track by nightfall, but only just.

Big surprise with this guy, right?

Whatever the case, Provost Valcone (Val-CONE-ee) leads you (without speaking, and at a trot for you) through the streets of Hammersmith, down through the Docks, and across the Lake Bridge over to the lower area of Hillside. Between the Lurai River and the Long Canal stand the fine homes of noble and wealthy merchant; while a few of them (typically of nobles) are mansions, most others are more akin to townhomes, not unlike those that make up the Little House, albeit larger than the ones that the Little House was made from. A few (a very few) buildings possess the most top-end places; one memorable location, just up the street from the Fortress, possesses four such establishments: Vorbar's, a walk-down fifty-some-seat no-reservations-taken expensive-as-hell restaurant, the first and the finest, run by the same two families, the human Vorick (mostly serving) and the halfling Barholm (mostly cooking) for over seven thousand years; Flaco, Ltd., a clothing store of the most haute couture and with prices to match, located on the first floor; MVK Jewelry on the third floor, renamed only sixty years ago but said to have the best safe anywhere but in Gondahar; and on the top floor, the only privately practicing wizard (or at least supposedly) in Mosval, available for consultation. (Not his workshop, note, just a place where he can charge three arms and five legs for a discussion about why your teenage daughter doesn't want to marry the husband you've picked out for her.) Plenty of other places exist in little clusters throughout Hillside; the nobility and the rich don't like to have to travel too far for their shopping, after all.

Housing the Mosval government, the Fortress was previously the home of the ducal line, rebuilt after the frostwyrm's dominance (and their eradication) more than seven hundred years ago. Though the council still holds the city 'in the Duke's name', it's commonly accepted that that's a fiction, and 'when the duke returns' is local for 'never'. Nonetheless, the sixty foot walls are impressively tall, as is the twenty-foot gate. The drawbridge over the fast-flowing Tumbler Canal is raised and lowered at least once a day, though it's been more than two centuries since it's been done due to battle.

Inside and roundabout and up a couple flights of stairs, Provost Hall is a peculiar mixture of desk duties and combat practice; on the fourth floor along the river wall, half of the long, low, wide room continues to be used for its original purpose, as a salle; as you enter through a door in one of the 'short' sides, three pairs are on the inside half in painted-out lanes (some of them oddly shaped), working out against each other with wooden practice weapons, none larger than a longsword. Two archers stand with their backs to the wall you entered through, chalk-bag-headed-arrows drawn and aimed at targets on the far side of the room - through the combatants.

To your left, closest to the expanded arrow slits, rests a column of desks facing the door you came in; each desk possesses a lamp on a hook able to brighten its surface late at night. Another four individuals work at those desks, three gathered around the second one nearest the door, with the last doing paperwork roughly halfway down the way. At the far end, directly opposite the door through which you walked, is a closed door.

Your guide leads you over to the trio - a frowning middle-aged man, muscled but not bulky; a dour-faced dried-up kernel of an older man, standing but with both hands upon the ebon cane upon which he leans; and a young woman, perhaps fifteen years, looking a little pale. All three are looking at something on the desk, and as you approach, the first man is talking; you can catch the tail end of the conversation.

"... really rather you'd let me do this, Milo. Now that they've shown ..."

"My call," says the older man, turning towards you and your guide. As the young man stops and comes to attention, the older man regards you for a long moment, then nods - or, to be more precise, head-bows. "Mr. Dardragon, I presume. Would you care for a seat, or ..."

"Miss Salt," says the young woman diffidently, naming a halfling every halfling in the city knows, Veronica Salt, the only halfling in the Provosts, "has a platform by desk eight, sir."

"By all means, let us adjourn to desk eight, then. Matthew?" The middle-aged man flips up the ends of the leather to cover whatever it is they were looking at, then picks it up and heads down-hall; as your guide seems to be about to follow, the old man turns and says, "Thank you, Walter. That will be all."

For a moment, young Walter Valcone seems to be about to protest being dismissed, but since he clearly is, he exits back out the door in what can only be called a huff.

The prune looks after him with a faint smile, then nods again to you. "After you, please."

Once down by desk eight (and a very nice platform it is, right up next to the wall, with halfling-height steps and everything necessary to put you on a relative level with the humans), Matthew places the heavy object back onto the desk and flips the cloth back off it, revealing it to be a small chest; the lower half of it (and the leather upon which it sits) is wet with something oily.

"Mr. Dardragon," says the old man. "This item has proven to be dangerous to investigate, and we haven't the key or keys necessary to open it safely. Would you do us the honor of persuading it to reveal its secrets?"

The Keeper looks amused at Brand's request; his reply is, "Forester, I'm not her father, and even if I was, Bluebright's a grown woman. Talk to her if you dare; I'm not sure I would, but I've always been a little chickenhearted when it comes to the other sex." Asiding to Baltor, he murmurs, "What, only that long? Got a death-wish in for me, do you?" He laughs quietly, then gestures Brand to head off. "Go find Bluebright, Master Brand. Baltor, if I can put a flea in your ear for a few moments ..."

----------

The Keeper watches Brand leave, then finally smiles indulgently. "He's young. Talented," he admits, "but young. So is Bluebright, though, so ... give me half an hour, and then you can go see to harnessing your aurochs. Lovely beast, by the way. Haven't seen one of them in years." (You had, after all, arrived last night - a little late to talk to the Keeper, but what can you do.)

The old elf's face holds a thoughtful expression as he watches a six-foot-long lynx pad past the longhouse's opening, black tips to the tufts at her eartips and cheeks; a handful of kits, each about a third her size, pad alertly past a little bit later. One of the kits pauses to look inside and meets the Keeper's gaze, but not for long; Mom's call to order is a short rasping rrowl, and the kit turns and pounces out-of-sight after her.

The sight makes the Keeper smile for a moment. "Life goes on, I suppose," he says. "And it's up to us to make sure it does. Baltor, before you start getting ready, could you hunt down the following and have them come see me? I need to send messages to the other godswoods." He names off four or five others, most of whom you recognize as being fellow druids, who aren't too tough to find, but it does consume most of that half an hour. And while the druidic circle does have stores to last out the winter and much of the sparse spring that follows, they recommend that if you've money, you'll find better bargains in Mosval; they don't usually take money (due to having little use for it), instead preferring to trade goods or services directly. It's a very ... communal society.

----------

Bluebright, by the time Brand finds her, is in her own hogan, putting a few things together. She smiles - grins - at him, but doesn't stop her limited amount of packing. "Master Kubrik will be wanting me to head somewhere," she tells him, then pauses and lifts a hand. "Don't apologize," she tells him. "The wind does not apologize to the tree, nor the mountain to the wind, nor the water to the mountain. Wolves do not apologize to deer, or deer to the grass; do not apologize for what you are. People apologize, and make a muddle and a mess of things. Be what you are, entirely and unapologetically. If perchance you learned that not all greenskins are terrible monsters, well, then let that inform your thoughts in the future. No intelligent species is nothing but monsters; that does not mean you must cease your study of the best ways to fight them, because no intelligent species is free of individuals who are monsters." She gives a smile, and though she makes no bones about it being only a pleasant interlude, well ... though you are headed one way, and she another, you are there right now, and so is she.

But it is a very pleasant interlude.

"Arthur Harold Renaud," comes the voice of Burhul's manservant, civility slowly seeping into his voice. "Valet. Possibly 'at liberty and seeking employment,' depending on how all this plays out." Getting drugged and dropped in the clink is apparently not sitting well with him. Or who knows, maybe he thinks Burhul did do something to merit a prison sentence.

"David Tehloff," says the bus-boy (and probably general laborer). "I work at the Sword of Boram."

"Land-lord's door opener?" asks the old man, hands still resting on his cane.

"Yes sir. Makes roisting non-payers a lot easier. Cuts down your expenses for new doors a lot, too." He gestures with his head to Horst, Nissa, and his partner, and heads upstairs at a slow walk - not creeping, but not tromping, either.

The arrest of what winds up being three people is rather anticlimactic; the middle-aged man finds a narrow, two-inch-tall hole in the wall perhaps six inches away from the first of the two closed doors upstairs, and works the piece of shaped metal through it. A twist, a shifting, and a push and a thump sounds from the other side as the bar drops to the floor; the door pushes easily open after that, the brace that had held the bar in place fallen out. A young man and a twentysomething elven or half-elven woman are in the first room, an empty pitcher and two cups on the bedtable; a very well-built orc is alone in the second, but the same sort of pitcher and cups (again two) are on his bedtable as well.

None of them can be awakened.

All three are nude and must be dressed, at least in their underwear. "Ah," muses the middle-aged provost, "the glories of our work. Creep into murderer's bedrooms, find them unconscious, and have to make them decent. While we're at it, collect some of their clothes," he suggests to Horst and Nissa as he and his twentysomething younger partner (who's been blushing ever since they opened the first door) hoist the young man from the pair and start downstairs with him. "This boy's clothes look to be scattered across the floor in here," he adds to Nissa; she's had the dubious honor of 'getting' to dress the elf or half-elf woman.

The old man watches the work with the killing tool less than he does the researchers who are telling him about it - and about the work that was done with it. "I see," he says quietly after both Horst and Brooks are done with their examinations of their respective objects - one a knife, one the corpse that was created by it. His eyes do shift sideways to regard Nissa for a moment as she murmurs in Aryindic and carefully frames her hands into meditative figures; his thin lips get thinner for a moment before he turns back to the others. "Well. Unless there is anything else you can tell us, Professor, I believe we are about done here. Acolyte IronBrow, Professor, if you can finally release those knots and cover the poor girl up until the wagon from the Temple comes to take her --"

The door that leads into the street opens. "Sir?" His eyes go (how could one's eyes not??) to the body still bound to the table; he blanches somewhat. "Um. The ironcart is here. Who ..."

"Kassenbaum. The City Guard has sent along their usual four?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent." The old man starts up, triphammering out instructions disguised as requests. "They can watch the outside for us. Please instruct them, then retrieve Pavel from the back door; bar the entrances as you come inside, I'd rather not have the tin men bumbling around and lousing everything up. Professor, if you'll please take the rest of your samples to the bar - do cover it first, we don't want Lieutenant de Navan's polish spoiled - and finish packaging them up and placing them into the evidence case. As for the dagger, please bind it carefully, and use the ties around the oilcloth; remember not to touch it. I don't believe it will fit into the evidence case, though. Beatrice, you can be finished with your sketches in, say, ten minutes? Good, good. I'm sorry, but the dagger will have to go into your portfolio."

His head tilts to one side as he eyes the ceiling, listening to the snoring forms on the other side. "Acolyte, Miss Alami, would you be willing to assist my provosts in taking into custody whatever individuals are upstairs? Alive," the old man emphasizes, having seen Horst's clenched fists.

"Take your bear with you before he eats all the berries, then, will you?" The ancient elf's fingers are laced as he watches the Trollheim Keeper lumber from the half-buried longhouse; the black orc's coarse laugh lingers around the entrance well after he's gone. "And you?" Kubrik asks of the smaller orc with the six-foot stone mace.

Thoq shrugs, and replies, his unintelligible words full of certainty, almost soothing in their implacability.

"Hmm. Makes sense. The closest major mass would be ..." He trails off, thinking for a moment. "Hm. Would be Kedron's Tor, actually. You could take a look at the heartstone yourself, if you need to. Baltor, would you -- no, I don't think so, you've a worse job ahead than giving directions." The Keeper rubs his chin for a moment. "They don't take kindly to greenskins at the Tor," he warns the orc. The presumably-a-druid-orc responds with a couple of words and an obscure gesture, which makes Kubrik bark a laugh. "Suuuure. Good luck."

Thoq nods, standing up from the bench on which he's been sitting, bare feet never under the table, and takes up the huge stone club again with the ease of one familiar with the burden. He makes a gesture, right hand over his heart then forward and down so that his palm is up, first to Baltor, then to Brand, before heading out as well, six feet of wood and stone slung over his shoulder.

"Um ..." Kubrik looks definitely abstracted for a moment. [/b]"Let me think. Frankly, we couldn't do much more than cook breakfast for a kolshi'ichanth mage-lord flexing its power, so ... let's deal with the moose in the house first - Ice Bay and whoever is whipping up the greenskins into coming south from Trollheim this-a-way. Then we can work on figuring out what to do about why the northern tribes have been coming south. Since neither of you are city people, exactly, you're going to need allies, and for allies familiar with a city, you'll need to head into Mosval."[/b] He eyes the two. "Either of you know anybody there who might be able to help, or help you find someone who can?"

"Don't underestimate the importance of your coming here, Baltor," Kubrik says quietly. "Thoq had only a feeling. Your news confirmed it in the most emphatic way possible."

"I'm no Master. But Trollheim isn't where the problem is," grunts Nok. "Ice Bay is. The city is swelling with greenskins, and I'm sure that someone there is manipulating them - and maybe manipulating the tribal leaders, too, because there's a lot of movement between Ice Bay and White Fang. And I don't know if that ties into this kha-phecht, but it's definitely not helping the situation."

Though Beatrice gives Nissa a wary, sideways glance at her weapon instructor's murmur, she continues to sketch, and hops down from her stool to describe in charcoal the twists and tucks of the girl's bindings. Once down, she tries to emulate the detached air of both the Professor and her superior officer, though all the adults in the room can tell she's having a tough time of it. The old man doesn't send her out, though, and she continues on, sketching the first several steps of the stairs up to the second story, where at least two, maybe three or four voices snore in contented disharmony.

As first Brooks, then Horst, vocalize their observations, he hmms, brow beetled and eyes moving slowly down the details of the girl's debasement. "Perhaps one of the ones over by the hearth," he suggests to Horst. "And don't be so quick to claim all goodness and light for the gods' servants; the worst villain I've ever run across was a petty-saint, pious as anything, but ..." He pauses, then shakes his head. "Never mind. I'd rather not dwell on those memories." He nods to Brooks' request to clean the girl up, adding, "That's what the water and rags are for, Ted. Remember, don't touch the dagger with your bare hands. In fact ..." He frowns for a moment, staring at the offending blade. "I think it would be best to remove it before proceeding. Professor, there should be several large pieces of cotton gauze in the evidence case, to both keep your hands from touching it and to wrap it up. An oilskin in there, as well, for a final wrap."

"First, though, bring it here," he thumps the table at which he's sitting. "Master IronBrow, can you take down these other chairs? We'll clear the base of the weapon and see if there's a maker's mark for you to be able to look up." Beatrice pauses by his side to flip through several of the drawings, which he examines thoughtfully; at one of them, his eyebrows lift, and his eyes shift to regard Nissa for a long moment, after which he gives a very slight nod - or, if the length of time that it is held is to be correctly regarded, a very subtle bow.

"Today's the sixteenth, so nothing that starts with the letter 'P' that we can't find somewhere else in the alphabet," comes Darna's voice.

"But prostitution starts with ... oh, wait, whoring!! Oh, good, for a minute there I was worried ..."

The Valcone scion walks, straight-backed, out of the house as he follows you; it's pretty clear his honor as a noble has been mortally offended, but his rôle at the moment is that of a provost, and as such he can't properly take offense. Once outside the house, he stalks off at a clip that's a bit fast for you, undoubtedly intending on forcing you to have to push yourself into an undignified trot to keep up with his lead.

Of course, of the others the massive black orc has more eyes for the human with the axes who is ever so ready to use them. Less than a hand short of seven feet in height, Nok Dha'Lek holds his hands low, curved and open, his shoulders bunching slowly up as if ready to swipe at Brand and bowl him ass-over-teakettle before falling upon him like a massive branch. While Baltor speaks, the black orc holds the ranger's gaze, poised to respond to violence offered. It wouldn't be the first time blood has been shed in the Grove - not even the first time this year. Violence is, after all, a part of nature - and though the grove can protect itself from those who would destroy it, it can do nothing against those who have differing opinions on what might be done within it.

Bluebright starts to move between the two of you, the ranger / caravan guide and the black orc druid from the north, but with a twist of his wrist, Nok's wide-spread fingers press against her heavyset form, preventing her movement. Sure, that might hinder his initial defense, but if push comes to shove, he looks pretty certain that things'll be up close and personal very soon thereafter.

And then Brand talks about cruelty and butchery.

"Humans," he says in a deep, rich bass voice that sets bones in your chests shivering with sympathetic vibration, "humans wipe out questing parties without cause, on mere suspicion. Humans destroy greenskin trade caravans with no knowledge but that a human caravan, bound for the north, has been picked clean of worthwhile goods and animals, not caring that their humans ignorantly fled the approach of a peaceable but wary trading column, heavy with guards - and the foolish humans fell victim to the dangers of the wilds through which both travel. Humans fall upon goblin alchemists and their apprentices, upon orc hamlets while their hunters are away, and raze them to the ground, leaving alive not a buck or doe or skittering bolkin." Without looking away, Nok spits to the side. "Talk to me of cruel greenskin butchery again, human, and you best be doing so with your axe already on its way."

"Peace, Keeper Nok," soothes Bluebright, taking a half-step backwards to ease the black orc's desire to move her, but laying her hand on his forearm. "He is ... a male," she concludes wryly, glancing over towards Brand. "A solo male, more familiar with the dominance challenge than the cooperative hunt. The dwarf has the right of it, does he not?"

Nok Dha'Lek grunts, and shifts his shoulders, keeping his eyes on Brand for a moment more before turning to speak to the orc at his side - who is no longer there.

Instead, while the two alpha males were having their staredown, the other orc stepped aside from it, and simply walked around it. Now he leans against the butt end of the six-foot-long stone-headed thing the head planted in the stream against a ripple of rock over which the water runs, leaning against it with both of his hands, his throat pressed lightly against the back of them as he looks down at the Keeper of the Wood. Kubrik, still wide-eyed and propped up on his elbows, speaks with the orc in a language sounding slow and inevitable, like a rising tide or a shift of a mountain.

The four of you turn to look and listen, if only for a moment, before Nok barks, "Hey! Speak a civilized language, why don't you - like Geh." This last is said with a dark sideways glance at Brand, as if challenging him to argue that Geh-Sahn isn't civilized. As if either of them should know ...

The orc and the elf turn, blink at the four of you, then look back at each other. "I am sorry," says the old elf, pushing himself up into a sitting position, then climbing to his feet with the assistance of the greenskin's hand. "Thoq is a ... fellow-traveller that I ... wasn't expecting to see here. He brings news. And I think, if the posturing is done between the two of you children," adds Keeper Kubrik, drawing a scowl from Nok, "That we should go back to my home and talk. And so I can let my shoes dry."

The orc Thoq laughs, surprisingly mellifluous, and helps the old elf out of the stream, saying another something in that language. Kubrik snorts laughter, and adds, "I guess you're right - if you don't want to get wet, don't go out into the weather. Come. Bluebright, please have some strong tea sent to my quarters? And a quarter-keg of smallbeer for Nok and Baltor to share."

An hour later, undoubtedly with much sniping between Nok and Brand, if not between Nok and Baltor as well, the problem is laid out. The greenskins are moving - and it isn't out of the Trollheim Godswood, of which Nok Dha'Lek is the Keeper of the Wood, but into Trollheim and Kelshin Rock Godsring's domain. Nok came south out of justifiable concern for this; while there are many scores of tribes and clans of greenskins that roam across the hundreds of square miles up there, hunting wild deer and moose and bear (one of the grizzly sort of the latter of which lumbers about, following Nok around), tending herds of other sorts of deer, reindeer and their larger caribou cousins, hunting with hawks and living as their ancestors have for ten times ten times ten times ten wheels of the seaons, other tribes from further north have been migrating into their territory.

And what information Thoq has brought (Thoq, who speaks only in that other language, and so must be filtered through Kubrik) suggests that the cause is not natural, but singular. "An ancient kolshi'ichanth mage-lord stirring," the Crowsfoot Keeper breathes, staring at the wood of the round table about which the five of you sit - Bluebright not having been invited, alas.

Nok flexes his hands slowly, focussed on them and clearly irate at the problem. "We of Trollheim have always made sure that the old ways are followed. That Fire and Water, Air and Earth are kept in balance and respect. That those who might follow the ways of men," and here he makes a spitting motion to the side, unconscious and habitual, but without actual spittle, "find their way to the cities, to learn what they must to bring honor and strength to their tribes. But now - now even they are being corrupted. If I could go harrowing again, I would find this kha-phecht, this waterform, and rend it apart with my own claws. But without me there, keeping the wildkin* leashed to one purpose and walking among the clans, they chafe and think instead on who will lead." He gives Brand a glower. "I don't want them down here any more than you do. But I cannot seek this thing that drives them from their rightful ranges, and the tribes will reach a breaking point soon."

"How soon?" asks Kubrik.

Nok grunts again. "With the first buds of spring, at the very least. Before the first snows, if the gods are unkind."

Kubrik lets out a slow, reluctant breath. "So much for next summer," he says to Baltor. "But a fully-awakened kolshi'ichanth mage-lord ... could tear apart Kedron's Tor without coming within a hundred leagues of the place, if the heartrock is heeding its call. Finding it before it wakes ... is our only chance."

* - Wildkin: one greenskin term for the druids. 'Treesibs' and 'earthblooded' are others.

As the two retrieve what is necessary, he continues his slow circuit of the table, pausing at the stairway and peering upwards; there are multiple sounds of snoring coming from above. By the time the buckets are ready, two other whipcord Provosts arrive, one taking up station just outside the front door, the other stepping inside. "Examine the back yard and the stables," the man is told, "and send to the nearest guard post for a wagon and a driver. I'd like everyone upstairs to be taken into custody." The man nods, and moves back through the front door, to pass instructions along. "Miss Alami, if you'll stand your post by the stairs; I apologize, but double-duty for you. I would prefer that if any of those above wake up and seek to escape, they find a hot greeting on this end."

The wrinkles of the man's face set with a sort of bleak finality.  "Now. Professor, let's see what happened to the young lady."  He gestures for the Professor to take up the corner opposite him, and the two draw the cloth off the body. Moments after, Beatrice is putting the bucket to use.  He, however, still stands as he was, letting the cloak fall to the floor as he examines the grisly scene with only his gaze at the moment.  "Hm.  I find this ... hm. Beatrice, when you're through, if you would be so good as to bring that case over here ... ? Professor, all evidence samples are to be noted and placed in seperate boxes from the case ..."

With a dagger thrust to its hilt in her chest, the girl has clearly been murdered. From her spread legs and shredded (some torn, some cut) clothing, it's blatantly obvious she was raped as well. From the arch of her body, wrists tied in what is clearly uncomfortable, if not outright torturous, manner to the legs of the table on which she is spread, it wasn't a short scene. Everything else is up to you to determine ...

Your timely rescue couldn't have been made to a better guy. No, really. Don't believe me? That's okay, didn't expect you to. The young Valcone straightens himself up a little raggedly, though if eyes could kill Sir Henry's would be sprouting an entire field of daggers. "You are the convict Welby? Hmph. I suppose I should have expected a halfling convict to be on the short list for lockpicks. Oh, I'm sorry," he says with blatantly false apology, "a security consultant. Well, gather whatever you will need for such a consult, convict Welby, the Lord Provost himself is waiting. Why he would send for you I have no idea ..."

An unexpected twitter and bit of movement comes from Sir Henry's shoulder; Harley flutters, then pops off the giant's shoulder and swoops over to land upon your own. Maybe she has an idea why you were selected!

From presumably another cell, yet another groan adds itself to the noise. "Blood and martyrs," comes a young voice, "what did I drink last night??" Hayden at least will recognize the voice of the young man she'd spent the night with. Or at least the start of the night.

Though he falls silent for a little while more, time moves ahead, one grain falling after the next, and soon comes the returning full-fleshed form of Bluebright, on foot as she guides two orcs to the center of the godswood. The first is a very, very sizeable black orc, clad in skins which, though they look crude, move very well with him; the second is a smaller, more standard orc, wearing a robe not unlike Bluebright's but carrying over his shoulder what looks to be ... actually, neither of you are sure what it is. Two feet long and one foot round worth of stone, attached to the end of a four-foot length of sturdy wood. The smaller of the two orcs carries it with the unconscious ease of one who has borne the item for quite a while, and has gotten used to its weight. "Kubrik, I have brought Nok Dha’Lek - as well as one called Thoq, who has recently arrived."

While normally I'd romp on ahead, one of you does have orc-kin as a favored enemy, and I'd be remiss if I didn't allow you to have reactions and act.

Once Brand conveys his knowledge, a matter of ten or fifteen minutes of conversation and questioning - primarily that a) rapid and violent growth of the smallest of the six criminal groups over the past year has turned it into the second-largest of them, and b) the greenskin presence in Ice Bay has grown from a proportion of about 30-35% to about 45% - the Keeper of the Wood sits there for a couple of minutes, thinking and occasionally scratching an itch here or there.

"Still doesn't explain anything," he finally decides. "More symptoms, no causes. Bluebright, can you go ask Nok Dha'Lek if he'll come here? I think we have a problem - all of us."

"Of course, Kubrik. I'll be right back." And with that, the woman turns, sort of ripples, and flows down onto all four hooves as she assumes the form of a wild pig. Off she trots through the bushes and vines, disappearing within moments.

Kubrik, for that is the name of the Keeper of the Wood, sighs and flops almost bonelessly onto his back, staring up at the leaves of the trees above him, his arms spread wide. "Bugger. I thought I was done with this sort of thing. Baltor, can you describe how the heartrock feels? Heavier? Thicker? Lighter? Ummm ... I don't know. Like it's trying to go somewhere, maybe? It used to be said that the ancients could move mountains with but a word of command ..."

Bluebright smiles slightly, recognizing in your attitude and voice both the knee-jerk prejudice you bear for the greenskins as well as the winsome desire for her. "Perhaps tonight, if you're still here," she replies. "Let's finish the dishes, then you'd better get off to talk to the Keeper."

You finish the dishes together in camaraderie, after which she walks with you into the godswood itself. You know enough to be guided by her way of moving; here, more than anywhere else, one should take care in how one walks, lest (supposedly) one sets in motion something that brings disaster to a farm, a village, or worse. The two of you arrive just in time to hear a very thoughtful, solid-looking dwarf clad in heavy armor which looks like it's made of stone speak to the plain-looking elf seated on the east bank of the eastern tributary stream. The dwarf says something about greenskins - in the summer.
----

'Long' is relative; most of the humans tend to think of his lectures as long, but the Keeper is, compared to most of the other elves you've met, positively reticent. He considers your explanation, then nods slowly. "The greenskins," he agrees slowly, as if with considerable reluctance. "Why they are moving ... I would give much to know. But the fact that they are thinking about it is, I think, a more pressing reason than as to why. When is a good question as well. You think next summer? That is a long time away; such an omen so far ahead of time would mean truly enormous events building up. I hope that is not the case, because I do not believe that Mosval would survive. Nor would any other town hereabouts - the Tor included." He scratches his chin thoughtfully, then turns his head to look at you with the uniquely piercing gaze he possesses. "Tell me what is wrong at the Tor."

When you give your instructions to the young acolyte, Walli nods quickly. "Yessir. Not going home for the rest of the day?" To be fair, this is the first time Walli's performed a service with a real live petty-saint, much less a saint of any kind, so he's got a bit of that 'star struck' going on. He will, however, relay the message; he's got a good memory, at after all, it isn't very complex.

Kaspar, the boy seated there, pops up and hurries after you. "I don't know what's going on, sir, just that Mr. Alex just woke me up, sent me out the kitchen door and said to run get Gus, then come get the Learned what was celebrating morning service. I guess that's you, right?"

Though it's technically full daylight by the time you're done with the dawn ceremonies, heavy fog continues to shift and eddy around you like a host of lost souls. Despite the location of the Sword of Boram in Westgate, having the boy there to guide you to the place's front door is a boon; fog like this, you could lose your nose clean off your face. When you reach the inn, a heavy-set human male with a bit of a gut scowls down at you before nodding and letting you pass; clearly the aforementioned Gus, undoubtedly with a bad case of 'it's too damn early to be awake this damn early'.

Entering the main room, the reason for the early-morning summons is all but instantly presented.  Alex, the owner of the inn and someone you know in passing, leans against the solid oaken bar, chairs still on its top, his arms crossed and his wolf-like eyes seeming haunted, horrified, fixed on the new centerpiece of the inn's public room.

Lydia, one of the three serving girls living in the Sword, lays sprawled on the centermost table.  She is only technically clothed, as her blouse is torn open and her skirt shredded to the waist.  Arms and legs have been spread and bound in what looks to be the most uncomfortable position possible, and ... well.  Rape.  And murder.  A fancy dagger is driven to the hilt between the seventeen-year-old's breasts.

* - Revised your official position in the church; see the Gods document (not the spreadsheet) in the Google Drive folder.

Preceeding you down the hall, she leads you into the stables and carriage house of the Fortress; there is a four-horse carriage waiting, black as pitch but well-made. Beatrice goes to the door, opens it up, and hands her portfolio into someone waiting inside. "Sir, ma'am, if you will?" After you climb in, she closes the door behind you, clambers up onto the driver's box, and snaps the carriage into motion. She drives slowly and carefully, as befits the foggy nature of the morning.

Inside, in the middle of the forward-facing rear seat (leaving the two of you to sit next to each other on the rearward-facing seat), waits an old man - seventy if he's a day, pruned up and wrinkled, his hands clasping a cane as black as the clothing he wears, as black as the carriage in which you ride. "Professor Brooks. Lady Alami. Thank you for coming. Undoubtedly you are wondering why you have been rousted out of your home so early in the day."

It's the Lord Reeve himself, head of the Provosts.

* - Adhÿpiķ means 'teacher' or 'master' in Sanskrit, and so therefore in Aryind. Used in this case like 'sensei'.

Also, very nice on the exposition for Nissa; that's the sort of thing I like. :)

At this, the reactions from downstairs are several. Khofi leans back in his chair, his arms crossing; he has that cool expression you know he gets when he's on a knife's edge, waiting for the trap's other weight to drop. Davan glances aside at them, and murmurs something you can't catch; your sister snorts, and murmurs something back, Davan making a mark in the corner of his slate; probably a bet of some sort, Davan having always had a problem with gambling.

All of this is a backdrop to Sir Henry slowly pushing his way upright. "I'm sorry," he rumbles, "I'm a little hard of hearing on that side. Did you just call us degenerates, and then threaten us? Who do you think you are, you little sh!t? I don't care if you are a Valcone, I'll apologize to your father for breaking your skull the next time he asks me to tell the story of crushing the skull of Hakh Cho'Grek's worg with my hammer in front of Hawk River's gates eight years ago. Or - because, you know, hard of hearing - did I misunderstand something?"

"I - I - I --" The Provost stammers, clearly alarmed and uncertain how to handle a 6'6" ticked-off knight.

"I wish it was, boss," comes Arthur's voice. "But I'm right next door to ya. You got a headache too??"

The Keeper of the Wood slowly sketches with one thin forefinger at the East Triangle. "Look. Something is up. The ant colony from the other side of the Fire maple is migrating south. Why do you think that is??"

You know, from your own training and wandering, that what happens 'within' the arc of the four trees (representing the elements from left to right, west to east, a widespread, gnarled-root oak for Earth, a tall lean poplar for Air, the red-in-autumn maple for Fire, and on the bank upon which you stand a great willow which trails its branches in the stream as it represents Water) and the circle they describe is reflective of what is happening, or will happen, or may happen, within the domain influenced directly by the godswood. Things that occur further out are indicative of other areas - Darknest to the east, Daggercleft to the southwest, Ravenhome to the west, Kelshin Rock and Trollheim to the north. The more further out, the less accurate the observations and predictions that can be made, but the Keeper has a reputation for knowing what's going on for two hundred miles in every direction without ever leaving the few acres of land around the Godswood.

Which means something is up - but what?

-----

Some distance further down the bank, Brand and Bluebright continue in their mundane work. While 'glowing reputation' is all well and good, being a caravan guard and forward scout means usually needing to do an honest day's work - or two of them, all in the same day. But certainly Bain would have tarred Brand's hide for being uppity had he not pitched in; out in the forest, once you've established whether or not someone's a friend ('cause if they're a foe, well, you're probably at odds anyhow), you help them out as much as you can.

Forest and weather don't care much for people. You help each other out when you run into each other, as much as possible without putting your own survival at risk. It's just the way of things.

Bluebright gives a noncommittal 'mmmm' in response to you talking about decreasing numbers and keeping 'good, honest, decent people' safe. "Some. There are often hunting and raiding groups down from the tribes on vision quests or adulthood trials - bolkin, goblins, orcs. They don't do as much damage as people think, but most people ... get caught up in the personal." She shrugs (which, again, causes interesting things to happen underneath that rather shapeless robe, undoubtedly doing more interesting things to your libido). "We've about ten or eleven greenskins here now. Nok Dha'Lek came down a tenday ago to discuss something with the Keeper of the Wood; they haven't mentioned anything besides among themselves, but any time the two of them aren't talking, the Keeper's been spending at the Crowsfoot itself."

She chews the inside of her cheek, straightening up and rubbing the back of her wrist against her forehead. "Maybe ... maybe you should go talk to him."

Other vegetation resides here as well; the four trees may dominate the place, giving solid correspondence and presence to the four Elements, but the Holy Family find their lesser representation in their own ways - flowers, an exquisite miniature tree, even a riot of climbing vine that must be regularly and severely cut back.

It is a place for those who seek to be more in tune with nature to come and contemplate, as all godswoods are; in each season, one can feel the strength of each element in turn. Here, also, one may find guidance, whether the more mundane sort (for many a scout and ranger is known to the keepers of the wood) or of a more spiritual type ... well, of a sort of type. Druids have never, ever been the sort to sit with their thumbs up their backsides, contemplating the wind while the mountain falls down on top of them, so their spiritual guidance is rarely of the vague 'pray to the Gods for guidance' that you're likely to find in the Temples of the Five.

Here, they give practical spiritual advice. And it's here that you learn the practicalities of them.

Of the godswoods hereabouts, Crowsfoot is the linchpin; those druids that dominate and influence Crowsfoot can apply subtle but immense pressures on godswoods two, three, even four 'steps' away. This is the center of study of harmonius energy for hundreds of miles in any direction; here you can do something, then travel elsewhere to see the results. When the heartstone of Kedren's Tor underwent a severe and inexplicable shift which even getting near makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise, the druids (being unable to explain it) sent Baltor east and a little north to Crowsfoot.

There, the Keeper of the Wood, though once an elf from the far south, is ancient in the ways of nature, having grown old walking through the vast pine forests and decidual groves, across the sandstone, shale, and granite of the Razorbacks, into the jutting Iron Mountains north-east of Ice Bay, and even onto the greenskins' rolling plains and tundra well north of there. If there is something in nature that has happened in the last thousand years, he has either experienced it, or been told of it by the Keepers that have gone before him; knotted tapestries that form a unique sort of library fill his hogan, and he is known to run his fingers over them when searching for an answer.

Today, when Baltor arrives something before ten, the fog and haze of the past few days is finally starting to burn off. The Keeper is within the acre of the godswood itself, sitting on the eastern shore of the eastern tributary stream, unaware or uncaring that his boot-toe is in the water. He is closely watching something in the East Triangle, as the space between the eastern tributary and the middle is called.

"Baltor," the wizened old elf says without even looking over his shoulder. "Not often we see you here."

-----

Brand, having safely delivered a caravan from Ice Bay to Mosval yesterday midafternoon, had decided that three months away from the godswood might be a bit too long; the druids with whom he shared a love of nature never asked for his visits or presence, but if he was nearby, they always appreciated information and news, whether directly from whatever godswood he might've gone past, or even to, or just from his observations in moving over the land. With Crowsfoot being something in the nature of 'on the way back to my cabin', stopping by overnight (because walking in the dark in Dry Moon is asking for trouble) was a pretty good idea.

Give what you can, take what you need; the druids are a very communal sort of group, and though you can't perform the culinary wonders that some of these fellows can, you can chop wood and carry water with the best of them. Breakfast is simple but filling, and you talk with one of the druids as the two of you do dishes. A heavyset human woman called Bluebright (probably for her eyes - incredibly captivating), she listens with thoughtful interest as you tell her of the increased greenskin presence in Ice Bay, as well as the recent violence between the criminal groups that are the de facto rulers of the place.

"That's ... peculiar," she opinions, her body shifting in a rather interesting manner beneath the simple homespun robe she's wearing as, elbow-deep, she scrubs the bottom of a cauldron used to make porridge for the couple-hundred-strong (but widely scattered) community. "Did you get a chance to see what the tribes themselves were doing? Or," she adds, knowing your preferred method of interacting with greenskins, "were you wise enough to not go looking for salt at the bottom of the ocean?"

Well, not totally, and the Ravennan Historical Preservation Society has been a little light on funds recently, so the final selection of the five expedition proposals to nearby sites that are on the table for the local leadership to decide amongst is more likely to be chosen on the grounds of 'what can we afford', not 'what is likely to bring back items of interest'. As it nears lunch time, you and a handful of more senior 'archaeologists' are in the library of the Little House with your wheelchair-bound sister, going over maps of the proposed sites, maps refined from sketches of earlier explorations. Though others of the explorers occasionally go to retrieve a book, scroll, or map for Pameel, it's Welby who is most often told to 'gofer' - and why not, right? She's your sister, and picking on big brothers is what a little sister is meant to do in life.

The ironically-named 'Little House' is a sprawling thirty room non-mansion created by purchasing nearly an entire row of townhomes and knocking doors in the walls and, in the case of the room you're in, large portions of the floor away. Started almost a hundred years ago by a number of the aforementioned senior archaeologists, it is the headquarters for the local action group, the very place which Khofi first invited you to visit. While you have become a frequent visitor, you are not yet a member; this privilege, however, is one that the brilliant, livelier, but still low-key Pameel has acquired. Though she does not live in the Little House, it may well just be a matter of time. It's a good sort of life for her, highly respected by active people who look to her for direction, information, and advice; it certainly comes with an excellent kitchen, and you are definitely looking forward to the table they set.

At the moment, Khofi (who, with his dark skin, sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the otherwise light-skinned members of the club) is sitting kitty-corner next to your sister, hunting through six different inch-thick books for an obscure reference the young halfling woman insisted was in there. Davan, a lean half-elf who has saved your life with his pinpoint shots more than once, is sketching with chalk and slate, debating with Sir Sean Henry about the known variations of Kolschi'ichanth construction, and trying to imagine what might be beyond the revealed rooms of one of the proposed sites.

Sir Henry is a giant of a hammer-wielding man, knighted for valor but gentle in private - so gentle that while you're up and about, your thrush friend Harley prefers to sit on his wide shoulder, watching what he's doing. Right now, you and Darna (gnome female, a Temple-authorized sorceress) are in the midst of reshelving and retrieving half a dozen book requests on the two floors of the library when you hear footsteps approaching along the hallway outside the main doors.

One of the senior servants of the Little House, the 32-year-old underbutler Nathan Blake, opens up both of the library doors with the sort of formality one gives to someone of much higher station. Through the doors steps a well-dressed but piggy-eyed young human male, at a guess in his mid- to late-twenties, who looks at absolutely everyone in the room with the ill-concealed contempt of the spoiled noble brat for anyone who actually dirties their hands for a living; his own are clasped behind his back, causing his light jacket to shift with every step in a manner that is probably not accidental, because it gives the brass pinned to the right breast every opportunity to catch the light. Your own keen ex-con always-alert-for-the-law eyes identify it as a Provost's badge.

"Masters," starts Nathan, only to be stomped ruthlessly upon by the little twerp.

"The Provosts are here," proclaims the self-impressed twentysomething noble scion. "Which one of you degenerates is the convict Welby?

Those on the main floor look at each other in mildly offended reaction, but the best one is Darna, bending so far over the railing around one of the tidy square-cut holes you think she might fall through, says sotto voce to you, "Degenerates? Henry's not degenerate ..."

While the two of you undoubtedly know each other on sight - after all, how many tutors of young ladies can there be in a city of ten thousand? - you have never been introduced to each other. At the moment, the two of you are sitting in one of the anterooms of the Fortress after having been carefully led there by a young page, your bell having been rung around seven thirty this morning by the aforementioned page. Said the page, "Ma'am," - well, sir in the case of Professor Brooks - "apologies for the early hour, but the Lord Reeve requests your presence at the Fortress in a matter of considerable urgency."

To Nissa, the page added, "The Lord Reeve requests you come fully kitted out for action within the city, ma'am." Said Brooks' page, "My Lord asks that you bring your, um, complete medicinals kit." The page concluded with, "I'm to wait and be your torchbearer." Good thing, too, because the brisk walk or light jog to the aptly-if-dully-named Fortress, once home to the destroyed Ducal line, is through pea-soup fog that eddies like a restless ghost.

Though the council that rules still holds the city 'in the Duke's name', it's commonly accepted that that's a fiction, and 'when the duke returns' is local for 'never'. Nonetheless, the sixty foot walls are impressively tall, as is the twenty-foot gate. The drawbridge over the fast-flowing Tumbler Canal is raised and lowered at least once a day, though it's been more than two centuries since it's been done due to battle.

"Wait in here, please," said the page, after which you were offered a bite to eat and a cup of the early-morning beverage of your choice, coffee or tea or juice or just plain refreshing water.

So are you gonna introduce yourself?

In Burhul's case, you recall, muzzily but pleasureably, of the girl turning down with a flip of her skirt the advances of a local scion of some sort of nobility, the son of a very successful merchant at least; the money, though desired, was clearly secondary to attraction, and though your skin isn't the socially-approved-of bronze or pale of the humans, the green tint of your melanin is rare and exotic enough, not to mention your clear strength and sophistication.

In Wyverna's case, you vaguely remember the burly but overgallant orc laughing as he carried a clearly-willing-if-playfully-shrieking buxom wench upstairs, but subtlety had its own rewards for you; the slight pursing of your lips in admiration of the late-teen boy's form, a forefinger stroking your chin when he looked over, the pause at the bottom of the steps once the crowd thinned out to look back at him watching you, deliberately glance up the stairs, then look back at him before giving a slight gesture of your head upwards - and then ascending alone. He showed up no more than ten minutes later, and the two of you ignored the sounds of pleasure coming through the two doors of the pair in the room across the way in favor of making your own gasps and moans.

For both of you, your partner for the evening went down afterwards, to fill cups from one of the pitchers of juice set outside on the kitchen stoop to cool overnight. Now, however, inside your head is an overeager band of dwarves banging on the walls of your skull as they search for threads of the fabled golden mystic metal orichalcum, which they call gromril, and which the elves call sah-le'estha'a, or 'sunmetal', and what you right now call 'in bloody well desperate need of willow-bark tea'.

Opening your eyes (pain) you see the stone ceiling (pain) of the room you are in, (pain) which must again not be (pain) the room in which you started the night, (pain) which had a wooden ceiling (pain). Looking around (pain) you realize your rented room (pain) in the inn whose name you can't remember at this moment (pain) also didn't have a heavy iron-bound door (pain) with a two-hand-length-square window (pain) with bars on it, (pain) hanging so it leaves (pain) a two- or three-inch gap at the bottom. (Oh yes - pain.)

Bastard's balls - you're in jail.